MicroHorror

It had been less than an hour since the water had turned to fire; for Alan Massi it took only this much time for the world to end.

It started with the rain.

Alan had stood on his lawn in the early hours of the morning. He was looking at his car, how it shined in the summer sun’s light; he had no interest in the sun itself or the sky in which it reigned. He cared for the car even more than the newly purchased house that stood behind him. The house needed work–a lot of it. The car was perfect. Until, for just a moment, it was covered by shadow.

So Alan looked up. Directly above him there was only blue and the sunlight streamed undisturbed. He looked right. There was one small gray cloud, strangely alone; this had been the culprit and it made its escape quickly. Alan turned left. In the eastern sky was a massive cloud, roiling and black. This was moving toward him as quickly as the gray–that sentry it had sent ahead–was moving away.

Alan did not move. This divided sky was unlike anything he had ever seen. He gave a fleeting thought to the one umbrella he owned. His parents had given it to him, but he left it behind when he moved out here–on his own.

The cloud came upon him quickly, seeming to traverse the miles between them in no time at all. Alan heard the raindrops before he felt them–syncopated clangs against the cars and roofs on the block before him. These were big drops, unrushed. He noticed that there was no one else outside.

And then the first drop hit him. It was hot. So was the second. The third and fourth drops seemed to sear his skin. Behind these, endless more formed a dark curtain that threatened to close upon him. Alan, in blind instinct, squinted his eyes and hurried into the house. The back of his head and legs burned as he ran.

Inside, angry blisters rose in constellations across his body. Alan considered this ghastly rain. He went to his refrigerator and took out a bottle of water. He rolled it across his reddened arms; it offered little relief. Absently, he opened it and drank. The water was uncomfortably warm going down. Alan opened the refrigerator again and pressed his hand to the shelves, to the walls, to the jars. They were all cold.

He walked to the sink and turned the right faucet knob. There was no reason the water should not have been cold; there was no steam and no heat rose from the sink. Still, he could not bring himself to touch it.

With nothing left to do, Alan watched the torrents outside. His window framed a dark landscape; this cloud had turned the day to night. A trickle of water now ran down the window’s inside pane. Around the room, leaks sprang from the ceiling and the walls. Alan pulled himself close so that none fell on him.

Soon he could sit no longer. His body had begun to burn from the water within. Not just the earlier swallow that was now building to a boil in his belly, but that in his limbs, his lungs and his head. So he stood up. He moved slowly at first but then ran. He ran from corner to corner because there was nowhere else to go.

Finally he stopped. He did not bother trying to avoid the drips from above; they were inescapable. But now this outside pain felt mild compared to the anguish inside of him. So the water fell upon him. As the drops bore tiny holes in his skin, he only listened to the wall of sound as the house was battered from without. Its constancy was comforting somehow; it called to him.

His insides raging, Alan went to the door, opened it slowly, and walked outside and into the rain.